


Come Out and Play

by PeachBriseadh



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Marriage Proposal, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, arguments and make ups, children cursing, wise children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 15:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22712746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachBriseadh/pseuds/PeachBriseadh
Summary: It’s Valentine’s Day.You tell Jake you hate Valentine’s Day.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Jake English/Dirk Strider
Comments: 13
Kudos: 122





	Come Out and Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notwest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwest/gifts), [carnivorousBelvedere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnivorousBelvedere/gifts).



> THE VALENTINE'S DAY FIC FOR SUZ AND BELVIE I started last year boy howdy here it is

When you were little, maybe all of what, ten? You hated being outside. 

Well, not to say that has changed entirely, you still deteste the better part of the less than great outdoors, but you have found natural conditions you favor. Back then, however, you loathed the idea of not being surrounded by four sturdy, shielding walls. Your roof was about as far as you were willing to go, and even then only as long as it took you to wear yourself out practicing your one true hobby, swordplay. 

Problem was, you couldn't take your electronics outdoors without the threat of damage, so you didn't. They were the only real friends you needed, and you kept to them. 

The summer you turned eleven, the world gave you a reason to venture.

His name was Jake English and he  _ loved being outside _ . 

More specifically, he loved being outside  _ with you _ .

A year older, and two houses down, Jake was built of stronger bones, but weaker resolve. Maybe weaker isn't the right word. Jake was earnest and bright to your sarcastic and calculative. Before he knew your name, he was calling to you like your very own tiny transatlantic Romeo, tossing pebbles at your closed window to catch your attention. 

You were drawn to one another like magnets from day one.

“ _ Come out and play _ ,” he would call, all overbite and superhero Bandaids and big, sparkling green eyes. He got you to come outside. He got you to do a lot of things, most of which got you into serious trouble or bruised all to hell.

You were inseparable.

Or so you thought.

You’re pretty fucking dumb, though.

You pull your scarf tighter around your neck and fight back the tears stinging your eyes. 

You’re now a tentatively adjusted 26 year old, and you  _ hate _ him. 

You hate the stupid gap that he grew into by seventeen, his pension for feigned ignorance, his delicate cowardice. It took the two of you a solid year of tactless flirting to confess, drunk and stupid the night before senior prom, even though you had obviously been in deep since fourteen. 

Of course he kissed you first. He's always been a sore loser. Which reminds you. 

You hate his competitive attitude, the way he challenges you. The way he rolls up his sleeves because he can’t stand them being in the way, heedless of weather, just like his stupid impractical shorts. The arrogant way he pushes your buttons and turns you off or on at his command. His dumb as shit laugh.

You hate Jake English.

You hate that you love him. That you will  _ always _ love him. Something tugs at your attention, drawing you out of your very reluctantly Julia Stiles inspired Jake English love-rant.

Vibrations. Your phone in your coat pocket. You ignore it. It’s Strider alone time.

Of course, the world at large is shitting on your alone time by holding some sort of town festival out in the damn streets. People hustle by, arms hooked into bent elbows or tight around a warm waist. It’s really pissing you off. Why are you here? You bite your lip behind the high walls of your scarf. Pink and red and white decorations dominate the vendors dotting the street.

It’s Valentine’s Day.

You tell Jake you hate Valentine’s Day. 

He would tell you to  _ get your head out of your ass and enjoy the day for what it is _ . You would say that it’s just a way for consumerist America to pad their wallets. He would roll his eyes, but he’d be smiling, and dangle a present in front of your face.  _ Well then, pet, guess I’m just another cog in the proverbial machine, hmm?  _

Of course you accepted his gift regardless and opened it immediately, every year, all the while schooling him about how in  the weeks leading up to Valentine's Day, gold jewelry sales generate 34 million tons of mine waste, how it’s just a commercial holiday, or how the suicide rate actually increases on Feb 14th. He gives you this tired look and asks if  _ you’re ever going to consider writing a different essay, or if you’ll just carry on reciting that one each year forever? _

You tell him you already have this one memorized to perfection so there’s no point in writing another while you hand him his gift. He grins and giggles and kisses you over and over until you’ve both forgotten about the gifts you undoubtedly wasted fifteen bucks on and stumble your way into the bedroom, hot and handsy.

You generally don’t mind Valentine’s Day. 

Didn’t.

Today though? Today it can fuck right off.

A lifted corner of sidewalk jumps up and snags the toe of your sneaker, tipping you forward. You catch yourself of course, it’ll take more than an emotionally unstable step and some severe safety overlooks by city planning to put you down for good, but it does knock you off kilter. Your glasses jerk down your nose and get caught up in your scarf. Of course.

This is just one more thing that is your fault, because you can't be bothered to relax about any fucking thing. As you take both your scarf and glasses off, since they've melded into one tangled-pointy-thready being, and so you can fucking see to untangle the mess you’ve made, you feel a tug at your side. You look over.

Then down. Way down.

A young troll looks up at you, black eyes glittering in the pink and red paper heart lights strung up and down the sidewalk. His eyebrows are god damn massive for his round little face, and pulled down in what? Anger? He looks like one of those cute puppy photos with the exaggerated paper eyebrows taped to his face. Is he upset with you?

“Yeah?” You ask, toneless.

The little twerp cocks his hip and drops a fist to it like you’re the biggest hassle of his young life and he can’t believe you haven’t realized it yet. He rolls his eyes and it reminds you so much of Jake for a second that you almost break your glasses between your fists. The kid digs into one of his coat pockets, somewhere near his knees, oblivious to your inner turmoil. He’s got on a puffy red coat that swallows him up, black jeans, and little black shoes. His hair is a mass of wild unruly black curls. When he looks back up, you notice his little red cheeks and nose. 

He finds what he was rummaging around for and pulls out his prize, holding it up to you, or more accurately, shoving it up towards your face. It's a fucking hanky. A real, grey with the initials K.V. embroidered into one corner in red thread, noticeably wrinkled and used, honest to fucking god, _ hanky. _

You stare, confused. He huffs. He is the single most indignant child you have _ ever seen _ . Your now disgruntled buddy shakes the hanky, unaware of the fact that there is no fucking way you’re going to touch that grimy ass thing with your bare fingers.

“What.” You say.

“Take the fucking hanky!” He barks out in his scratchy, high, child troll voice. “It’ll help.”

“Don’t say fuck, you’re like 7.” 

“Fuck you, you’re not my dad.” He’s got you there.

“Help what? I don’t need help.”

He gives you a tired, wilting look like you're the stupidest thing he's ever seen. God you’re even ruining this kid’s night with your constant overflow of bullshit.

“Obviously you do, dicksneeze. You’re crying.” He shakes the hanky sadly for emphasis.

Are you? You touch your cheek.

Those sure are tears on your face. You wonder when you started the water works back up again. Probably when you were cursing the poor sidewalk maintenance, or maybe when he reminded you of Jake. Who’s to say.

“I’m not touching that.” You tell him. “But uh... thanks, lil’man.” You say it before you can stop yourself, Dave’s nickname just rolling off your tongue in the face of another pint sized wiseass. He tilts his head, sizing you up, and shoves the hanky back into his pocket.

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks, looking the picture of emotional support.

Yes. Yes you do.

“Sure.”

He nods, looking serious, and holds the hand that was not touching the hanky out to you. Considerate.

You extend your hand to shake his. He wraps his warm little grey fingers around your much larger, probably cold ones the best he can manage, and starts walking. You let him lead. His hand is very, very warm.

“I’m Karkat,” he barks, raising his voice instead of actually looking back at you. “I’ve seen like, every fucking rom-com in existence, so I'm basically a romance expert, you can trust me.” You look down to the tiny whorl on the top of his head, the pinpoint grey speck that all those chaotic curls fan out from. His horns are barely visible through the thick, ebony mess. You should probably do the adult thing and introduce yourself.

“I’m Dirk.”

“Alright Dirk, wait here a second.” He walks you over to an empty bench and pats the wood with his tiny hand, motioning where he wants you to sit. Apparently, he has very little faith in your abilities as an adult. Honestly, he’s probably right to. 

You follow his orders. He turns and stomps off to a kettle corn stand a few feet away. Your guardian instincts go full throttle, watching like a stringy mother hawk to make sure he makes it through the crowd unharmed, there and back. It makes you wonder why he’s even alone out here in the first place, but you suppose you’re plenty capable of watching him until someone comes along looking for him. Dave is after all, still alive and thriving.

He treads up to the window like he’s about to throw down, stands on tiptoe, and delivers his order to a kid barely twice his age. You watch Karkat dig a wadded up five from his jeans pocket and hand it over. You note, remorsefully, that it’s the same pocket that holds the dirty hanky. The clerk passes him the purchased contraband, weary of Karkat's lack of height, while Karkat tells the dude to ‘keep the change.’ You nearly start laughing, lip picking up on one side. This kid, you think, shaking your head.

With the exchange achieved, Karkat turns and heads back to you. The bag makes up three fourths of his not but minimal height, and probably matches his bmi digit for digit.

He hops up next to you and wiggles backwards until he can lean against the bench, feet swinging in the air. You watch him tear viciously into the bag with his sharp little puppy troll teeth, bypassing the twist tie completely like a wild animal. He leans the bag towards you, giving you this  _ or else  _ sort of look. You take a handful of the crunchy saccharin kettle corn to appease him. 

With his new charge, you, seemingly taken proper care of, Karkat allows himself to partake in his breadwinnings, shoving a handful into his mouth and crunching loudly. A kernel falls out onto his lap and he snatches it up quickly, popping it into his mouth. He doesn’t seem to want to waste a single kernel, popped or not.

You decide you genuinely like Karkat. Maybe you’ll just ditch Jake for this kid. He’s meeting all of your standards.

“Alright Dirk, talk to me.” He says. You wonder how much this is going to cost you hourly or if your insurance might cover Doctor Karkat's going rate. 

“So,” he starts. “Why are you walking around crying like a big baby.” Okay, maybe not _ all _ your standards.

“I messed up.” You tell him. He 'hmms’ and kicks his feet. When you don’t continue, he sighs dramatically, which seems to be his only gear.

“ _ Okay _ ,” he says, tilting his head in a ‘no shit’ sort of way. “What did you mess up?”

“Loaded question, Karkat. I-” is as far as he permits your ranting before you get absolutely fucking leveled by a glare. You’re a decrepit parking garage armed to the teeth with TNT and Karkat's got his tiny little grey finger on the detonator, sick to death of your unsatisfactory conditions and ready to blow your sorry ass to smithereens.

You clear your throat, and try again 

“I started a fight between my boyfriend and I.” 

Karkat's look softens with a level of understanding and empathy that shouldn't even fit inside that tiny round face. He's like seven, how you can clearly read two fairly complicated categories of emotional comprehension from his adorable features is beyond you. Maybe you're just feeling overly emotional here. 

Probably.

Karkat offers you some more popcorn and you oblige him, scooping out a small handful.

“Why did you start the fight, Dirk?” He lets the  _ you fucking idiot _ hang in the air. You stay silent for a minute, mulling over the last week with Jake and finishing your delightful treat. Karkat is patiently quiet as he lets you find the right words.

You take a deep breath and he looks up at you, eager. You knot your hands together to keep from picking at your gloves or fingers.

“I guess I should start at the beginning. About four weeks ago.”

And so you break it down for the little guy 

Since early January you had started to notice foreign reading material appearing in your shared living space with Jake and Dave. You assume it is Jake bringing them in since Dave is nine and probably doesn’t give a shit about The Knot Magazine or Latino Bride and Groom.

You assumed correctly.

Jake actually went as far as to hide the first few like a prepubescent teen hiding dirty pornos under his bed or in the bathroom cabinet. When he found you sitting casually flipping through one of them in the den, he laughed it off and relented.

By relent, you mean he stopped trying to hide them.

They became overabundant. Kitchen island, coffee table, bedside table. Each one displayed happy brides in tremulous white gowns or spiffy grooms with pressed collars in a wide variety of colors and fashions. The dresses however, were always irrationally white. Traditional. Classic.

Not you. Nothing like you.

Karkat gives you a pitying look and you roll your eyes. He drops it immediately and throws a handful of popcorn in an effective scattershot across your face. “Just keep going,” he says.

You do.

That was the thought that rooted into your mind like sugar on teeth and started to busily erode your big, sappy, self deprecating heart. Jake seemed to be hinting at a wedding, more specifically, one with a bride.

It was odd and infuriating, but you talked yourself into settling down. Reminded yourself to be patient, that he  _ would  _ come to you when he was ready to talk about whatever this was. 

He did not. Not after a full two weeks of it. 

What really got you was when he started picking up extra hours at work, and effectively avoiding your reasonable and carefully asked questions about why. It's not like either of you are hurting for cash. 

Dave had arrived home from school half way through your first movie. He whizzed past the two of you without a damn peep. Very unusual for your motor mouthed kid. It was damn obvious there was something bothering him, but he wasn’t about to spill. Even he didn't want to talk to you about what he was feeling or thinking. His evasion pushed you just a little closer to the edge of your patience, honestly.

At the mention of Dave, Karkat seems to freeze up and almost choke on his popcorn. It draws you out of your little reverie. Something about what you just said has him worried.

“Karkat? You okay, little dude?”

His big grey eyes snap up to meet yours, a high growl humming behind his words. “I’m fine! It’s fine. Just keep going, we’re working on your problem not mine!”

Okay, woah. “Alright, okay,” you say in the same voice you use to soothe Dave. You keep a wary eye on Karkat as he angrily shoves more of his sweet treat into his mouth, cheeks barely flushed red.

Back to the couch, just barely an hour ago.

You and Jake were sitting together on your couch, deep into your third rom-com movie marathon. The day was practically nearing its end and Jake hadn’t even brought up your usual gift exchange. Did he.. Not get you anything? That should not have bothered you as much as it did. His present from you sat waiting upstairs in your shared bedroom, untouched. The way it would probably remain. 

You were not having fun. 

“What movie?” Karkat chirps form beside you, breaking your concentration again.

“I’ll get to it,” you tell him, to which he nods and goes back to chewing.

Every single one of Jake’s choices had featured a somewhat extravagant, emotionally compelling romantic scene centered around a wedding. It chafed against your already thinning patience. You'd had it with these happy hetero couples leading their happy hetero lives. Some fool was trying to prevent the ‘love of his life slash best friend’ from getting on a plane or something and leaving him behind forever. Also you guess she was about to get her heart broken? Honestly you were pretty over it already. It was like Love Actually, but more infuriating. 

Jake was fidgeting, nervous for some reason. Maybe he could feel how shitty your mood was. Stranger still, he hadn’t initiated even the slightest hint of cuddling, and you were too aggravated to do it yourself, so you sat there and drove yourself up the wall with the same thoughts echoing like a crumbling landslide through your brain, spine rigid with his arm over your shoulders.

_ You can't be a bride. _

“WOAH,” Karkat says, sputtering popcorn and aggressively signing a tiny T with his hands. Damnit. “Time the fuck out!”

You give him a stern look. “Stop saying fuck.”

The little fire eater rolls his eyes at you,  _ again _ , and snorts. “Sure, when you stop being a big dumb idiot, which is so unlikely. Valentine’s Day isn’t about getting married, shit for brains, AND JUST BECAUSE IT ISN’T AS DEEP AS LOVE, ACTUALLY DOESN'T MEAN IT’S ANY LESS OF A GOOD MOVIE YOU HEINOUS TOOL.”

“Just -” you start, rubbing at the bridge of your nose. You have to get all this out in one go if you’re going to tell it. “Just let me finish this part and we’ll discuss the merits of your infallibly shitty romcom, okay?” 

His cheeks puff up, nostrils flaring. He can probably see his own eyebrows with how low he’s got them pulled down in an impatient scowl. 

“Fine.”

Anyways.

You can't give Jake children, can't create a nuclear little family with him, 2 and a half kids with some rescue dog. You have a family already. There's nothing wrong with the one you've made so far and frankly you’re pretty fucking annoyed. The fact he has stayed at your side this long is a fucking miracle, you know he’s too good for this. For you and your shut in little life. You hit your breaking point when Jake checked his goddamn phone for the millionth time since you sat down.

“Dude,” you said. “What’s your deal?”

“Real subtle, Dirk.” Karkat quips. You ignore him.

Jake was reasonably confused, looking down at you and blinking those stupidly pretty eyes. “Deal? I’m afraid I’m not following, love.” 

“This,” you said, motioning to the tv and the magazines and the everything that he never did before. Well, not the movies. That shit's like, daily.

His eyebrows pinched down as he moved away to properly face you. “Now hold on, I think you’ve got the wrong idea in that pretty head of yours.”

You didn’t want to draw it out, didn’t want him to talk you down from boiling over. You were so pissed. So betrayed. “I can't be your bride, Jake.”

He recoiled like you had struck him a physical blow. “Dirk,  _ what? _ ”

The look on his face sent you straight into a frenzied panic. When Jake was upset, you were upset. This is usually because experience has taught you that it is generally _ always _ your fault. He would say that  _ no, that is not at all true _ , where you would say sure. You only knew one another, had in fact, only dated  _ one another _ in your entire lives.

He should know better by now. Maybe he did, maybe that’s what all the magazines were. Maybe he finally started looking at other people, greener pastures. All those nights pouring over catalogues. All the brides. All the better opportunities for a normal, happy, fulfilling life.

And so, you lost your mind.

“You've been avoiding being alone with me for weeks, and let’s face it, can’t blame you there. I obviously can't give you the dream life you’re looking for in all these shitty romcoms and catalogues. You won’t find me in there, Jake.” You didn’t remember standing up, your arms stiff at your sides as you stared him down, still seated on the couch. The movie droned on behind you, some guy on a plane. “I thought we were doing good, but you obviously think you can do better. Jake, I can’t be that for you.”

Jake stood up at some point during your mindless rant. He looked pissed.

“Yeah, he ought to.” Karkat says. The way he’s looking at the ground between his sneakers, you’re not sure he actually meant to say it out loud. You hum a confirmative, and keep going.

Jake was talking.

“Dirk, I can explain, if you’ll just hold your damn horses for a second.” He’s angry, but his calm control of it set you off more. So you  _ pushed _ .

“Just fucking tell me you’re done, don’t shove all this hetero-happy bullshit in my face. If it’s a bride you want, English, I’m not it.”

“I won’t ask you to be!” He says, desperate and angry. It stung you in a way you hadn’t expected it to. Somehow hearing him say he would not want that from you hurts way worse than you declaring it. He’s proving you right, when all you wanted to be was wrong. You stepped backwards towards the door in some sort of furious shock. Jake was stammering something, but you didn’t hear it.

You didn’t hear anything but the blood rushing past your ears. Your heart pounds against your chest as the memory works its way back into your lungs. Tears sting your eyes. You’re about to fucking sob when a tiny warm hand covers yours, grabbing hold of your fingers. You must have started picking at them as you are prone to do before you have an emotional breakdown. Karkat squeezes your hand.

And now you’re here, fully in the present with your presumably 7 year old romance expert as you try to explain how you majorly beefed it on Valentine’s Day and probably ruined your only chance at True Happiness.

“Dirk,” he starts. “Have you ever seen  _ all _ of Valentine’s Day?”

You groan. “Look, Karkat, I think you’re missing the point here.”

“No,  _ Dirk _ , I think  _ you’re _ missing the point here. You’ve missed the point so bad you’re in another fucking universe. You wouldn’t know what the point was if it jumped up and bit you in the a-”

“No! No, I haven't, jesus christ.”

He huffs. 

“Well, if you HAD, you would know that that movie doesn’t have a wedding, and is, IN FACT, not fucking 100% hetero, you trash human.”

“You’re right, I don’t know what the point of that is.”

Karkat facepalms with the kind of ferocity that would probably knock a human unconscious. Then, with all the force and speed of a shuttle fucking off into space, he clambors up to his feet on the bench so he can disappointedly look down on your meager existence properly. He wobbles a little, and you instinctively reach to steady him, but Karkat slaps your hand away,  _ ow _ , and straightens up, one hand cocked at his hip while the other points directly at the tip of your nose.

“THE POINT IS, STRIDER! That you both waited almost a fucking  _ month _ to even bring up what most people in a relationship would call a pretty BIG STINKIN’ DEAL, but you couldn't sit through Valentine's Day? I'm seven and I know you gotta talk about your problems to solve them, so what's your excuse mister adult, because you obviously DON'T understand something so SIMPLE?!”

You don't have one. You're just a stupid coward. You can’t even answer your phone.

Karkat's little foot taps on the bench, both hands fisted on his hips. 

Somehow, despite the February chill, you’re sweating bullets.

“I don’t have one.” You say, voice raspy and tight. “I blew up, Karkat. I don’t have a single god damn excuse.” 

Karkat drops his hands to his sides, a sympathetic look cooling his anger. He hangs his head, then plops his butt back onto the bench. He sniffles. 

“Yeah, me neither.” He says, heavy with the kind of heart wrenching grief he shouldn’t even be capable of at 7 years old.

“You too, huh?” You ask lightly, one eyebrow arched. Karkat looks up at you, mouth pulled to one side, and nods enthusiastically. 

“Yeah, some expert I turned out to be.” He pouts angrily down at his shoes, hands buried deep in his pockets. “I couldn't even give the person I like a stupid card without fucking it up.”

Ah, yes. School yard romance, or rather, the mass exchange of cheap paper valentines. You don’t miss it, never really cared. Nobody but Jake ever gave you a sincere card anyways. Well, sometimes Dave. 

You kept every single one.

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

He sinks lower into this coat, half his little face obscured by his scarf and collar. The tips of his sharp little ears are flushed red, like his round nose, and that’s really all you can see with the way he’s scrunched up like a turtle. You let him think on it. 

"Yeah. Yeah I can do that."

  
\----- <3 -----

The first time you kissed Dirk Strider, after years of pining and fumbling about in your messy teen romance phase, you were absotively schnockered on cheap booze he had mischievously pilfered from his guardians pantry. A taste testing, if you please, for prom that following night. The two of you had every intention of poisoning the proverbial waterhole. 

You had made a grand scheme to kiss him at prom, provided you had the liquid courage to back yourself. 

You had planned, that is, to make a whole production of it, a whole affair! Lay one on him in the center stage at prom, surrounded by your companions and the whole friggin class for that matter as you make your grand confession of love! 

But no, it didn't happen that way. Instead, you passed a bottle back and forth between you until drinking was all you could do not to fall under the temptation of his flushed cheeks and red lips, swollen from the constant abuse of his own tongue.

You've never been too accomplished at fighting temptation.

One second you were thinking about how handsome he looked, pink and dizzy and rhyming softly under his breath, next you were holding him by the collar and smashing your lips together. He was surprised, but only long enough for you to maneuver the bottle out of his grasp and make room for your embarrassing attempt at necking. At some point you managed to tell him you fancied him as more than a bro, to which he had smiled crookedly and said,  _ no shit English. _

You spent the next hour drunkenly convicting Dirk that  _ no, his braces didn’t hurt. _

Well, as embarrassing as it is to recall, at the time, it was anything but.

You liked him the first time you gazed upon him on high, tinkering behind the thin shield of glass at 12 years old. For someone who supposedly hates the outdoors, Dirk has always strayed towards windows, towards the sun.

You loved him when he agreed half heartedly to play adventurer.

You loved him when you kissed him for the first time with liquor on your breath.

You loved him the first time he broke your heart, and the first time you broke his.

The man is like breathing, required for your maintain your own blasted survival.

Your relationship has always been a tad particular.

A long, drawn out, slow burning fuse that always ends in a bright, world shattering explosion. 

That is your entire dynamic. 

The two of you, dancing around and challenging one another until your inevitable clash.

Dirk has always been passionate, you think as you sit down on the couch, head in your hands and fight back the tears. Passionate, but closed off. Patient when all you want him to do is  _ ask,  _ to press you for answers.

You’ve done it now.

You’ve really screwed the pooch on this one, English. 

You couldn’t just approach the topic like a normal human, oh no. You had to spend a month planning and littering the house with tattered wedding paraphernalia instead of just opening your friggin mouth. You just.. You hoped he would want a discussion. Hoped he would open the floor up for you, so you wouldn’t have him feeling pressured or surprised.

So you didn't have to initiate that particular conversation. To test his interest.

So when you proposed, you and he would have some kind of ground to stand on. Instead, you only managed to upset him and send him spiraling into self deprecation  _ again _ . 

He isn’t picking up your calls. You don’t blame him.

_ I won’t ask you to be. _

Your own words bounce around in your skull, heavy and incriminating like a spiky iron marble. Friggin howdy it’s not at all what you meant to say! You were just so.. So angry! Why does he always have to turn your words around on you when he’s feeling cornered!? 

But. 

You’re the reason he even felt defensive, you know. You run both hands through your hair, eyes rolling up to the coffee table. One of your many gathered wedding magazines sits on top, mocking you. The bride eyes you conspiratorially as if she too knows what a right catastrophe you’ve made of this Valentine’s Day. You really, really cannot stand yourself sometimes.

Before you can really dig into yourself like you deserve, however, you catch the tiny shuffle of feet at the doorway. Dave stops there, hand on the door frame as he rubs softly at his eye with the other. He must have fallen asleep, awoken by the slamming front door. He glances around the room, free of his shades. You don’t remember when he stopped wearing them around you, the change was so gradual. Fragile. You’re thankful, though the concern on his face makes your chest clutch painfully.

“Hey there, kiddo. Sorry if we woke you up.” He walks over and joins you on the couch, yawning widely. 

“S’okay,” he says softly, pulling up his legs to sit cross legged on the cushion, a habit he picked up from Dirk. It tugs at your heart like poorly plucked strings, strumming ugly painful notes inside your chest. You’re getting choked up again.

Dave seems to notice, and he eyes you cautiously form the edge of his vision. “So.. what happened?” He knows you were going to propose. Actually, he’s  _ the only one _ that had prior knowledge. That's probably a little out of the ordinary, but nothing in your life has ever been even minutely mundane. 

You turn, lifting one leg up onto the couch to face him properly. He does the same, waddling a little as he turns without uncrossing his legs. The action is destructively cute, and you’re struck with just how fond you are of little Dave.

“I’m afraid I’ve botched it, Dave. Everything’s gone pear shaped.” You blow a puff of air from your lungs, intercepting a sticky sob that has been working its sly way out. “I’m such a damn ignorant fool,” you half wheeze, half choke out.

Dave reaches over and pats the back of one hand twice before withdrawing, expression stern. “Dude, no, you can totally fix this. Don’t worry man, I’ll help you, whatever fruit shapes you got. Nobody knows Dirk as well as I do, you’ve got the ultimate Dirk Strider strategy guide right here next to you.” He prods a thumb in his own direction and you can’t help but smile at him.

“I’m hard pressed to see how, but I trust your abilities, Dave. If anyone can throw me a rope to land me out of this hole, it’s you.”

“Damn straight it is. So, what went down?”

You should probably scold him for his profanity, but you both know you only do that when Dirk is around, so you let it slide. Again.

"I, well.. you know, I had it in my noggin that by cantroping the house with these stupid magazines maybe Dirk would get the hint? Or perhaps he would bring it up and I would be saved from trying to parse out how to ease the creature into it?" 

Dave’s little nose twitches from side to side like a bunny before he says, “I don’t know what can dropping has to do with it, but man, that’s silly. You can’t ease dad into anything, you just gotta push him in.” He makes a tiny shove motion with his hands, emphasizing what very decidedly un-gentle actions you should be taking with the man of your dreams. 

You fidget with your hands, wringing them together in your lap, knuckle over knuckle in a tight rolling knot. On days such as this, where anxiety drives your idle hands to throttle one another like so, Dirk would usually pry your fingers apart and massage the worry until it melted away. 

You swallow, and knead at your sore mits viciously.

“I told him I wouldn’t marry him.”   
  
Dave squares up best he can sitting criss cross on a cushion that is very well trying to swallow him, his little arms crossed in agitation. “No you didn’t, I totally wasn’t eve’s dropping or anything, but I definitely did  _ not  _ hear you say that.”

“Well, not those exact words precisely! But I may as friggin well have for all I did say!” You fling your hands up, bringing them back down into a tangled knot of wide knuckles and blunt, bitten nails.

Dave drags his hands down his face and groans, a quirk he picked up from Roxy. It’s amazing how much he notices, how much he can retain. You’d like to grow up to be like  _ him.  _ Dave is a genius in your book. You hope he’s wise enough to not scribe any of your behaviors into  _ his  _ book.

“Listen, bro. The magazine thing wasn’t the greatest plan, it was honestly pretty stupid, but it’s not the end of the world. We can work with this. He’s probably like, walking around thinking about how this is his fault.”

You frown.

Dave frowns.

“No, NO! Stop, that’s not what I meant.” Dave points his finger in your face, “I mean, okay, it’s your fault, but look dude I know you didn’t mean it to go to shit, obviously, and we both know he’s gonna blame himself no matter what.” 

“I’m not sure how I feel about you being the adult in this conversation.”

“I’m gonna pretend that doesn’t mean I’m not the adult in all our conversations. Anyways focus Jakester, we’ve got a job to do.” 

“Also, don’t say shit.” You chide him.

He gives you  _ a look _ and nothing else, then proceeds to mow right over you.

“We both know he’ll be gonna all night if someone doesn’t go looking for him, becasue he’s stupid, so that’s where we’ll start.”

“Okay, but will he even talk to me?” 

“Jake, have you met my dad? He’ll talk to you. The tricky part is what you gotta say.”

“Oh, bully.”

“Exactly. You gotta sweep him off his feet, ya know? Romance him and stuff.”

“Yes but how!? He’s not going to like me walking up and pulling the ol’ swoop and smooch! Dave my young friend, I think you're exaggerating my abilities here, though I am flattered.”

“Jake, man, listen. There’s just one thing you gotta do to get him back.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” It comes out clipped and more aggravated than you intend, but Dave’s expression remains calm.

One thing? To hell with that, it can’t possibly be so simple! 

...Can it?

“Apologize, dude.” He says with a one shoulder shrug. “That’s what the teach says, and I trust the teach, so you should too.”

“I.. I mean, well of course I would but..” That can’t be it? It can’t be that simple.

“Yeah. When I do something to make dad upset, I gotta apologize. And man it’s hard sometimes, but he listens, you know? Dad loves you bro, just say your sorry and go from there.”

It’s not a grand plan, not some panacea offered with a step by step guide to fix your mistakes. 

It’s the simple truth. The unjaded reasoning of a nine year old mind. You know it won’t be that easy,  _ you know this _ , but so does he. Dave just simply understands what’s right, what should be done, action without the baggage that comes from having made mistakes before, the tar on your heels. 

The box in your pocket sits heavier somehow, but not like lead, not like trouble.

Like gold.

He’s right. It’s just that simple, apparently. Of course there will be a discussion later, a future, but that comes after you find Dirk, after you apologize. If he agrees to let you keep him for the rest of your lives.

“And you, Dave, care to help me a while longer? Keep me brave so I can face your dad?”

He grins and shrugs in time. “S’what bro’s are for, dog.” 

You lean forward, capturing each of Dave's tiny earlobes betwixt your fingers in such a way that the ball of either thumb presses his cheeks together comically. His brow curves down in annoyance, as it always does when you do this, and you squish his cheeks and grin at his tiny angry fish face. Like Dirk, he’s covered in freckles and blond as the day is long. The both of them blush fiercely, turning bright red with the right provocation. As cool as they act, you know they’re both butter soft on the inside. You really love them. 

“You are a marvel, young Strider! Here I am overthinking this whole debacle like it’s the end of days and here you are with the answers.” 

Dave grabs both of your wrists and tries his best to push you off. When this fails, he reaches across and drills you with a sharp little jab to your ribs. You’re in pain, but boy howdy are you proud.

You let him go and clutch at your side, laughing as Dave rubs at his pink cheeks.

“I guess I’m pretty smart.” He shrugs for the hundred millionth time. “Seemed obvious.”

“Say, how about we go find our Dirk, and I can give your advice a try?”

He smiles, bright and small and it’s just one more little secret he keeps. The Striders just don’t understand the power they have, you reckon. Honestly, thank mercy for it.

“Cool.” He says, nodding, and jumps off the couch to find his sneakers.

You’ve got a man to catch and a heart to mend.

\----- <3 -----

You have now learned that angry, romantic, smart mouthed, actually eight year old Karkat has a big, mushy, sickly sweet crush on your kid.

“Stop smiling, it’s so gross.” 

You don’t, in fact you keep smiling right down into Karkat’s flushed little face like you were born to do just that.

Apparently, karkat tried and failed to give Dave a valentines card, but when your kid received the card he acted all cool and indifferent. 

Ah yes, you know this scenario well.

“He didn’t even say thank you!? Just..” karkat makes little claws from his hands and shakes them in front of his face. “Just stood there and said, ‘cool.’ Like, WHAT?” 

Knowing him as you do, you bet your collection of hats that Dave was losing his absolute fucking mind.

“And I, uh.” Karkat grips his knees and stares angrily as his sneakers. “I screamed in his face. And he, he ran away. Like, ACTUALLY turned and ran!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Dirk! I said, IF YOU DON'T WANT IT JUST SAY SO, and ripped it up and he ran away! Why? Who knows! Probably because I lack even the most fucking basic brain cells for normal human interactions! Or, and more likely, because I’m just a big stupid dumb IDIOT!!”

Okay, he’s going to just keep at this if you don’t stop him. Grabbing the popcorn bag he has unknowingly been swinging around to stop the onslaught of sugary kernels, you still him, abruptly silencing his rant. 

“Karkat, dude, woah, STOP.” 

He looks up at you in a fiery rage that lasts all of nearly two seconds before crumbling into fat pink Ghibli tears rolling down his scrunched face. For fucks sake.

“Karkat. Man, listen to me. I can, as his parent, promise you that it’s going to be fine.”

He does not, in any way, believe you.

“Oh what the fuck do you know!?”

“More than you. I raised Dave, for starters. Pretty sure I know him better than anyone.” 

He scowls, because he knows you’re right. He won’t admit it, because he is both eight and an asshole, but he knows, and that’s enough for you to continue.

“Karkat, I’m not sure I should be the one to let you in on this, but I don’t see any other options.” He looks up at you suspiciously, but he’s interested.

“Dave already likes you, man.”

He bristles. “OH HAHA, that’s a funny joke, Dirk, maybe you should be a comdion.”

“First of all, its comedian, second of all, I’m never funny. I’m very serious. And if Dave couldn’t even say thank you, it’s probably because he was shitting his pants that you were giving him something, and when he hurt your feelings, he bolted.”

Karkat fidgets, dull fangs poking out to gnaw at his bottom lip.

“Okay, let’s pretend you’re right, that just makes it  _ so much worse _ that I took it back and tore it up!” 

“Yeah, you probably scared the living shit out of him with that one.”

“OH, THANKS DIRK.”

“BUT,” you cut him off before he can get all worked up again. “I’m confident you can patch things up. If I can apologize to Jake, you can apologize to Dave.” 

Damn, but it’s a small world.

“I… I mean, logically! Yeah! But love isn’t logical!”

He’s really using love right now. You’d laugh if it wouldn’t totally insult him, and because you’re not that much of a total prick.

“Karkat, literally anything you say is going to negate your own advice. You wanna be that guy?” You slip into your parental tones again and he seems to respond to it in kind, sniffling as he shakes his head ‘no’ and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. The gesture is a stark reminder that he is, in fact, just a scared eight year old kid.

“Fuck.” He sniffles. Yeah, you get that.

He looks up like he’s about to say something else, but goes rigid when he catches sight of something over your shoulder.

You turn your head in time to see Jake strolling your way with Dave high on his shoulders.

Uh oh.

“FuCK!” Karkat barks.

“Don't say fuck, you’re like seven.” Jake says as he and Dave make their approach. Bad move. Funny he should try, since you know he doesn’t reprimand Dave for it.

“FUCK  **_YOU_ ** ,” Karkat bellows back like he's throwing mud in Jake's face, jumping off the bench and taking one fierce step forward with the sheer ferocity of his expletive, one finger striking out at Jake like he's casting a big fuckoff spell. 

You watch his little chin knot up and his lip quiver and yeah, the dude is at the end of his rope here. He gives you one last apologetic look, then turns and sprints through the crowd. 

You look up in time to see Dave's shocked expression. Not much is left on display behind those big aviators he wears, but you know. It’s in the barely visible crease between his brows, the small ‘o’ of his mouth. He taps Jake's head impatiently to be let down, obviously in a hurry. Which is a shame. They make a pretty adorable picture like that.

Jake gingerly sets Dave on the ground and the dude moves to bolt before his little rubber bottomed shoes are even on the sidewalk. Jake makes to stop him, but you stand up and put out your arm to block his advance despite the ugly knot forming in your chest at the sight of him. You know where he’s going.

You both have apologies to make.

That doesn’t stop you from yelling after him, letting Dave know he has twenty minutes until you come looking for him. He throws you an impatient wave over his shoulder and disappears, he’s nine now, after all. 

You trust him, even if it eats at you to have him so far out of your line of sight.

You’re about to turn and step away from Jake, rally your nerves and figure out how the sweet loving fuck you're going to prostrate yourself  _ and  _ get on his case when a very warm hand closes around yours, still hovering in front of Jake's chest.

You whip your head around, all too aware that your glasses are back on the bench with the popcorn, and catch his shining eyes behind those tortoise shell glasses. His cheeks and nose are flushed handsomely, a stern set to his jaw. You swallow, spine rigid.

He's about to cry. Shit.  _ Shit. _

He looks down at your hand in his, and takes a deep, shaky breath. 

You have seriously fucked this Valentine's day.

“Jake--”

“I'm sorry,” he says over you, resolute. Your mouth falls open in awe.  _ He's sorry? _

“Jake, dude, no, I-” you start, but are interrupted a second time.

“No, no! Stop right there, darn it!” He pulls you to face him, weaving your fingers together so you can't escape. The touch frightens you, grounds you, draws you back into the warmth of his orbit. What the hell were you thinking? You're a fool if you thought you could ever give him up. You never should have left. Honestly, you'd probably die without him at this point. He’s got you trapped in every way that matters.

“I've been immeasurably obtuse with you as of late, and I apologise for that. I never meant to make you feel so.. so.” His eyebrows scrunch up, eyes pinched shut. You did this to him.

You give his hand a light squeeze and lace your free fingers together for good measure. He smiles, a small delicate thing that looks almost painful. It twists something sharp in your chest.

You offer him a saving grace.

“You're wrong. I mean, I should never have jumped down your throat like that. We both have apologies to make.” You shrug. “More so me, but I won’t stop you.” That gets an honest chuckle out of him, expression shifting to something almost reverent. Nina Simone’s dreamy voice rings over the speakers as Funny Valentine plays into the cacophony of the crowd, a gentle soundtrack to Jake’s sympathetic smile. 

“Alright, love.” He tells you, a gooey sort of romance behind his eyes that has you wishing you were home. “Let’s hear it, you first.”

Oh, okay. 

You blink, then let your eyes fall to the collar of his sweater, visible between the unzipped teeth of his jacket. Scarfless, as always. Jake runs hotter than anyone you’ve ever met, like a well maintained machine. One more thing you love about his body, about  _ him _ . You clear your throat and try to consolidate what you need to say. 

“I uh- I’m sorry that I- I, uh..” Come on, fucking say it. You clear your throat, lick your lips. Start again. Jake waits, eyebrows pinched in concern.

Shit, he’s so focused, eyes fixed on your face. You look at his mouth.

“I shouldn’t have blown up like that and shut you down like the asshole we both know I am.” You still can’t look at his eyes, you’re too afraid. With him holding your hands still, you can’t wring them together or scratch at your neck like you're twitching to do, so you find other ways to fidget, tapping one foot to the rhythm of the speakers. You watch the laces bounce on top of your foot. “You didn’t deserve that, obviously.”

You catch the tilt of his head from your periphery, a slight lean to one side like a dog trying to understand some strange new command. It’s so damn cute you almost cave, but somehow you’ve made it this far. “I mean, you’re being, all things considered, more than reasonably understanding. But you know, I wouldn’t blame you for wanting… I mean if you wanted to, you know. To take a break.” The concrete sure is something special tonight, so is that pitiful break in your voice.

Jake’s grip becomes painful, a vice that has your shoulders seizing up. 

“Dirk.” And wow, okay, that's  _ stern _ . He sounds pissed. “Look at me.”

Fuck. Can you? Can you even look at him? You try, for fuck’s sake you try, eyes climbing up to his collar, his throat, his beautiful, frowning mouth. 

“Please…” He whispers, softer this time. 

You watch the curl and flick of his tongue against his teeth, a quick flash of white between his lips as he forms each syllable of an all too short word. There’s a faint reddish hue to his lips from the tinted lip balm he stole from Roxy last you saw her. He liked the way it smelled and tasted, so he snuck it out in his coat pocket under the guise of forgetting she lent it to him like the guileless fiend he is. 

He liked that you liked it too. 

The taste, that is.

You lick your lips again, and take the final step, eyes sliding up to his.

“Hello, heart of my heart.”

You stop breathing like an idiot.

You don't simply see him there in front of you.

Life with Jake has never been  _ simple _ .

He’s intricate. Complicated. 

You experience him physically with every sense.

The thundering bassline of your heart.

The pink glimmer across his very becoming stubble, matching the pretty refraction of rose red through his glasses.

His wild hair, stirred up where Dave dislodged the temporarily tame curls.

The sway of the paper lanterns behind him.

The smooth, classically romantic music that just  _ suits him _ .

The warm atmosphere, steamy despite the sharp February chill.

The humming heat of his body, his rough hands, breaking you down by proximity and touch.

Even with all the noise and chatter and grossly dense smell of fair food, it all fades into a manageable din floating softly around the two of you.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, settling something you can’t see from the outside, and chuckles softly, sealing the quiet moment, eyebrows drawing together to form a crease between them. Your heart beats a savage tattoo at the intimacy of it all. You swallow, blink, work your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Anything to keep from going under and losing your rationale before he starts. 

His fingers tighten around yours. The smell of his cologne, clinging to that coat he's worn every winter for the past four years, drifts towards you and you almost lean into it. It smells like home. 

_ He _ is home.

Jake loves adventure, hates change.

Loves stories, hates learning.

Jake has always been an exercise in contradiction.

You never wanted romance, and well, here you are.

A goddamn fool. A moron. Stupidly in love.

There are glittering stars in your eyes as you look up the two short inches he has on you. He's your true love’s first kiss, the key to your dreamy shounen ai trope, the hot sting of belief in your exhaustingly ironic attitude towards a happy ending. He is as you wish. And fuck but you’ve already forgiven him before he even begins.

“I’m sorry too, you know!” He starts, face almost desperate, taking a step forward and lifting your hands up to his chest. He’s so fucking close he could easily tilt his chin down and lay one on you. Instead, he pulls your hands up under his chin, tucking them against his throat. His scruff brushes against your knuckles every so often during his apology.

“I”ve been, well, quite machiavellian as of late, so to speak." His thumb works stripes of sensation across your knuckles as he brings himself up to his grand apology. "And cowardly, at that. As always, I made impossible expectations that you were unaware of and got pissy when you couldn’t reach them. I don’t know how you put up with me, love.”

“It’s not so bad.” You say with a shrug. “You’re not so bad, most of the time. ‘Sides, you’re not nearly as complicated as you take yourself for, English.”

He snorts, but you’re not done. “I could have just asked, you know. It’s not like I didn’t notice the first ten thousand magazines and think, gee what could he want with all these?”

Jake laughs. It’s a little self deprecating, but there’s relief in his eyes that you’re not taking this too seriously. “Suppose you’re right, though I’ll disagree with you there, chum. I’ve always thought myself pretty simple minded.” 

He visibly calms as you chatter away your discretions. The real crazy shit about this though? The real mind blower? Is the fact that someone can feel so relieved, be so affected, by your ham handed forgiveness. It’s pretty fucking staggering. 

“Sure.” You laugh, a breathy relieved sound that surprises you with how easily it tumbles out. This man can piss you off, sooth you, destroy you, and thrill you all with just that one mouth. He pulls you out of time, drags you down into his little universe of adventure and pleasure and there’s really no other place for you now is there? 

Nowhere you’d rather be, anyways.

“Say, how about a proposition?” He says with a wicked little grin. It’s watered down by the sombre atmosphere, but you catch the spice on your tongue regardless.

“We’re sort of in public Jake.”

He rolls his eyes with a snort. “Firstly, not  _ that _ kind of proposition you harlot, and secondly, never stopped us before.” Okay, never mind. Fuck Jake English and his winks. You hate him all over again as a wave of heat tingles across the back of your neck.

“Spit it out, English.”

“Okay, okay, how’s about I be  _ your _ bride, hmm? How's that for a slice of fried gold?” 

The giggle that falls out of your mouth in entirely of its own accord.

“Yeah? You’d do that?” 

“Absotively, yeah! I've always wanted a bustle,” he says with another charming wink. “Maybe a sweetheart neckline.”

You hum your agreement, giving him an appraising look, eyebrow jump and all. “You do have the cleavage for it. And the chest hair.”

He throws his head back, barking a laugh. When his face comes back to you, there’s a fearsome amount of affection in his smile that has your kneecaps knocking together. 

Lifting your hands still caged in his, he flips them in such a way so he can press your open palms to his flushed cheeks. He sighs, almost dreamily, and you sigh from the shear relief of  _ his _ sigh. 

"Does this mean you'll make an honest man out of me, Dirk Strider?" He says, cheeks squished up as he squashes his own face with your hands.

He’s a goofball, but fuck do you love him. The thought tears it’s way through your mind like a clean shot right between your eyes.

And there's not a goddamn thing you can do to stop the messy, warm, all too affectionate smile that blooms across your entire face, cheeks pulled and eyes squinting. Jake tries to mirror you best he can with his trapped cheeks. You almost choke on your giggle in response to how cute he is, biting down on your lower lip to stop it.

"But I like you as a scoundrel."

He giggles. "Well that's certainly a relief."

"You.."  _ Say it, he needs to hear it. You need him to know. _ "You're uh, pretty perfect Jake. I mean, this was all excessively dumb, on both our parts, but I like you, yeah? Just how you are."

Jake's eyes crinkle at the corners under the force of his grin and you have to fight the knock-out swoon that rocks the air from your lungs  _ again _ . 

“Okay, alright. Evensies, then.”

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. The two of you are encased, held close and warm in your own private bubble of gooey sentiment. It's just the pair of you, bobbing alone in a sea of blindingly gaudy romance paraphernalia. 

"Hey, Dirk?" Jake whispers, gaze downcast.

"Yeah, Jake?" You breath, closing your eyes.

Jake presses in closer,  _ always closer _ , shoulders almost against yours, the pair of your arms trapped between the two of you. If only KARKAT could see you now. 

Jake drags your hands down to the sides of his neck, burning hot against your cold fingers. He doesn't seem to mind them. The bridge of his nose lines up beside yours perfectly, lips just a paper’s width apart. You can feel them, brushing feather light and damp against yours as he speaks.

"Will you marry me?" 

And just like that, your stomach flips over with a sharp inhale that drys out your fucking windpipe and it’s like you’re freefalling from the Empire fucking State building with no parachute and fuck you just hope you can fall forever honestly. Your entire body feels the weight of Jake’s love, heart pounding and tears finally,  _ finally _ , working their vile way up over your lashes, throat constricting around a surprised sob. You move to grip his hands instead of his neck, hold so tight you know it has to hurt, but he just smiles and waits like the sedacious saint he is. You need to answer him, but there just isn’t any air in your lungs.

He emptied them out with four god damn words.

Jake leans back enough to get a hand in his coat pocket, leaving yours pressed against his chest, not ready to break contact. He pulls out a small box and your thoughts flatline, scattered like television static. He takes out a ring, and for some reason you’re surprised, heart clenching tight. It’s simple, a flat band made of dark rich wood, a strip of polished gold across the center. 

  
It’s perfect.

He slides it onto the correct finger, holding your shaky hand in his equally shaky ones. It’s a wonder he got the thing on in one go. When he’s done, he brings it up to take a good look at it, smiling and drunk on the intoxicating amount of bliss you’re both drenched in. If it could condensate and gather, you’d be standing in your own puddle, dripping from head to toe. You feel the same way he looks, and the thought hits you that you probably look the same way to him, so you retreat like you always do when you’re feeling too much. 

“Fuck, Jake.” You blabber, bending forward into him. You press in close and hide your face in the crook of his neck.

“Is that a yes, then?” He asks lightly, giddy, but you can hear the worry in his voice.

“Shouldn’t you be on one knee or something?” 

He shakes in your hold, a quiet huff of laughter bouncing his frame. He actually goes to slide down to one knee, bless him, but he’s already put the damn thing on and what’s the point now so the moment he starts to pull away you panic, pulling him tighter to you, keeping him upright on two feet.

“No, wait,” You plead, then realize what a big fucking baby you are and amend that statement.

“Yes, I mean… Yes. Yeah, I guess I will.” You say, smiling, delusional. When you lift your head, Jake has a look on his face like you’re about to get a good old fashioned English scolding, but the look on  _ your _ face stops him dead. You have no idea what you look like, but hell you can’t really feel anything beside fucking  _ happiness _ right now.

“Dammit, Strider.” He says, all raw emotion and blatant releif and holy shit he’s gorgeous and kind and a lot to handle but fuck if you aren’t ready to give your life to him. 

Jake pulls you in for a kiss, but neither one of you can stop smiling for two goddamn seconds, so you end up laughing into one another's mouths like jackasses until Jake tucks his head over your shoulder and nuzzles his cheek against yours. 

“Dirk, Dirk, goodness Dirk.  _ My Dirk _ .” He laughs, holding you tight. “I love you.”

You sure are having one hell of a hard time breathing today. 

“I love you too,” you wheeze as you try your best to phase into him. “So much.”

Jake hums, quiet at first until he plucks the tune from the song playing in the air all around you, singing low with the music as you rock back and forth tangled together. His voice is only loud enough for you to hear. 

Marilyn’s sultry voice falls into the background as your  _ fiance _ serenades you.

_ Lock me in your arms forever _

_ That's the place I want to be _

One of Jake’s hands leaves yours, pressing your palm to his chest in silent direction. He moves it to his shoulder, and repeats the same relocating with your other hand on his other side before planting his second free hand on your hip like you could go into a classic high school slow dance. 

_ So anyone can see _

_ That I belong to you _

The hand at your shoulder slides up to card through the soft hair at your nape. Jake’s voice dips into a deep, sinful octave as he downright purs into your ear, tightening his grip on your waist.

_ And you belong to me _

Now,  _ now _ you think you can kiss him.

You plant your lips against Jake’s fast and hard as you can given the minimal space seperating the two of you and stars pop and shatter inside your fucking chest. You’re pulling at the sides of his open jacket, breathing sharp and needy through your nose as he digs those blunt nails into your hair and it’s fucking science. It’s the melding of two elements into one. Chemistry. You feel yourself try to push into him, heart pounding and head fuzzy with that blinding joy. Yeah there’s a lot of shit to come, to figure out, but for now?

Right now, you’re in the arms of the man you love, the man that just offered you his future to share with you until death. And you’ll take it. You’ll take every bit of him until there’s nothing left, because fuck knows you’ll never be full. You’ll never have enough of Jake English. And there’s-

Something tugging on your coat for the second time tonight.

Your lips pop off Jake’s, both of you staring half lidded and woozy into one another’s flushed faces. It would be embarassing if you had a single fuck left after the day you’ve had. Still a little embarrassing though.

You turn your head very slowly, reluctant to not be looking at Jake in some way.

There’s a little man waiting on you.

Dave has apparently returned, arms crossed, sporting a suspiciously expectant look on his face. He lifts up his left hand, wiggling his tiny fingers and arching one tiny brow. Oh, so the little traitor  _ knew _ .

Jake takes your newly banded hand and lifts in just over your shoulder for Dave to see, pressing his thumb into your palm to spread out your fingers like a cat’s paw. Dave’s face does two things. 

First, his little mouth makes that ‘o’ again, then a smile erupts from his features with enough volts to knock out six city blocks. He fucking  _ beams _ like you’ve never seen, an honest, blindingly bright smile from ear to ear, all teeth and that one dimple on his left cheek. 

His little hands come up to pull at his scarf as he fidgets excitedly, running over to your side when Jake drops his other hand, palm up, in an open invitation. Dave runs over immediately, throwing himself against your combined four legs. Jake bends down and lifts Dave with one arm, something you’ve seen him do a million times that’s never not going to be impressive in some way, and brings him up to eye level. 

Dave pats both of your cheeks like a proud, doting parent and you’ve never been happier than you are right here, right now. Dave leans back enough to speak, a sly tilt to his grin.

“So Jake’s wearing the dress, right?” 

  
  


\----- <3 -----

  
  



End file.
